The PFS flare that was making me so miserable in my last post lasted nearly three weeks. In the meantime I did what I could, maintaining a daily workout of around two hours with no impact at all. The swarm of angry hornets that had been trapped under my kneecaps buzzed and stung until last weekend, when we’d planned two snowshoe hikes. Getting ready for the first one, it was like someone had suddenly injected my knees with a magical antidote. We headed up to Grouse and stomped around in a snowstorm with a big gang of friends, diving into snowdrifts and somersaulting down slopes. My knee suddenly felt a hundred times better, although being side by side with skiers made me exceptionally sad.
The next day I went up to Seymour with two friends, and led a hike that they later described as a “snowshoe death march.” I cannot begin to describe how good that felt: it never even occurred to me to slow down, because it never occurred to me that I could hike fast enough to cause anyone a problem. I probably should have been more considerate, but I was stoked when I realised that I’d set a pace that challenging. I felt like things were starting to get back on track.
And then someone stole my bike.
I know; it’s not the first time. But we’re pretty cautious based on previous experiences; we don’t leave our bikes in the parkade, which is completely insecure. We keep them chained to the stair railings outside our front door, right at the far corner of the top floor of the building and through two fire doors. When I opened the front door and saw the empty space I just felt utterly sick, especially as all of the medical and other expenses this year mean there’s absolutely no way to replace the bike.
We work hard for what we have, and it’s never easy to know that someone believes they have the right to strip you of possessions that you treasure for their own selfish gain. But this was the bike that was my constant companion through rehab. It was the bike I rode to the beach at five weeks post-surgery, when my PT okayed me to go out on the road against all the odds. It was the bike that took me to work on my first day back. It kept me sane during the long months dealing with the aftermath of my knee injury.
All thefts sting. Somehow, though, this one stings just a little bit more.